Ryswyck

by L D Inman

  “Yes, my lord,” said Lord General Guiscard. Guiscard was the obvious choice to lead the delegation: he was army and would be at home on a land-bound installation; he had known Verlac before the war and had familiarity with their customs; and he was salty, shrewd, and adroit—a personality who could navigate Barklay’s fanciful inventions with humor as well as grace. He would assist the faculty who taught supply management. “I’ve never fancied myself a teacher,” he’d said, bemused, when du Rau had offered him the commission. But he’d warmed to the idea quickly and now took a quiet pride in his preparations.

  For his companions, du Rau had chosen two younger officers from the Estuary Guard, and promoted a third to the general staff in Guiscard’s place. And he had chosen a navy captain, who had helped to oversee the withdrawal of forces from the south coast and was mordantly eager to participate in a very different kind of invasion.

  “Don’t be tempted to think your primary mission will be to advance Berenia’s advantage,” du Rau warned them now. “That mission belongs to me. I will be very grateful to receive your observations and reports, and I will certainly make the utmost use of them. But your mission will be to keep the peace secured while I work. And I want you to learn something. Give over any expectation that you are only there to teach.”

  “Yes, my lord,” they said.

  “Because,” he went on, “ultimately, your mission looks even further forward than my work does. You will shape the next generation of leadership in our forces. I will leave no asset undeveloped, and that is why I wish you to take full participation in the life of Ryswyck Academy. If there is anything of value to be gained from your presence there, I want you to be ready to gather it.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Do you have any questions about the briefings you have received?” He had given them thorough dossiers on as many Ryswyck personnel as he could lay hands on; passed along nearly all of what Admiral Douglas had sent to him regarding the curriculum; and provided them with copies of the Verlac version of the general code and a summary of some of the local laws and political structures. Guiscard, reading his, had said he was glad to get his memory refreshed.

  No one had any questions. “Very good,” du Rau said. “I understand your flight leaves in the morning. Thank you for doing your country this honor, and may wisdom go with you.”

  When they were gone, du Rau went to the window and reversed its shade, showing the vista of the palace plaza lit to a depth by the golden hour of the lowering sun. The Estuary was a mirror ribbon among the blocky shapes of the buildings that lined it; the eye followed its tapering thread to the far side of the square, where one could just see the lily shape of the Lantern Tower, its flame now lit and multiplied by its newly-polished windows at the crest. They had had the solemn lighting ceremony last week; no matter where he looked, du Rau had seen tears in every eye: and then had found it hard to see, himself.

  In the morning, his men would fly to Verlac and be escorted to the ground at Amity, then would travel overland to Ryswyck the same day. At the same time, the Verlaker delegation of forces would cross by ship into Berenian waters and be received at the docks du Rau could see from where he stood. It was a delicate operation; they had only begun to knit together; but the beginning had been made. We’ve already won.

  He heard Ingrid’s soft step behind him. Turned his head in time to see her arrive at his side, a glass of wine in one hand and another for him. He took it and sipped, watching the sun go down.

  They said nothing, companionably; the sun sank until the Lantern Tower’s light was the stronger, crowned with the living jewel blue of the late-winter sky.

  “It’s cold out there,” Ingrid finally remarked. “But it looks warm.” She was looking at the tower flame.

  “It’s well,” du Rau said softly.

  ~*~

  Douglas had invited as many people to the arrival ceremony as he thought Ryswyck could reasonably hold. Selkirk could not be there, but he sent General Fleek to honor the delegation; she bore a small urn containing handfuls of soil collected from the birthplaces of the soldiers who had died on Barklay’s mission. The Berenians had agreed to take the soil home with them and inter it on the square, under a plaque with their names. In return, Douglas had undertaken to add the names of the dead from Solham Fray to the ash garden roll at Ryswyck.

  The small airfield beyond the tower was crowded with shuttles arriving and leaving, from the capital, the depot, and Amity. Shortly before the Berenians were due to arrive, the skies of course opened and poured down sheets of very cold rain. Douglas kept peering through his windows, tugging nervously at the stiff tunic of his formal Ryswyck grays; but it wasn’t the Berenians’ shuttle he was anxious to see.

  They all seemed to arrive at once, and amid the popping of rainshades as the Berenians and Central representatives alighted, Douglas was relieved to catch sight of a slight figure in army greens making her way steadily across the field with the clement assistance of a cane. He strode out to the main hall, where the greeting ceremony had hastily been moved from the arena quad, and took his place with the senior cadre in full dress uniform.

  What dignity they may have hoped to retain by moving the greeting indoors, they quickly lost. The arrivals boiled in without order, bringing gusts of winter wind with them through the doors; cold droplets were flung everywhere as his Ryswyckians relieved them of rainshades and furled them, and the skirlers, whom Douglas had diplomatically banished to the mess hall to save ceiling-plaster, chose that moment to strike up a proud blast of an anthem that more than made up for their being a room apart.

  It was just like his mother’s house.

  Which was probably why, just as he caught sight of the consternated face of a decorated Berenian in a greatcoat who could only be Lord General Guiscard, Douglas fell back upon his mother’s methods. He set his teeth against his lip and ripped a whistle that cut through the whole echoing froth of voices: instantly, his Ryswyckians fell in and came to attention, the tumult died, and an urgent hissing brought the skirlers to play a last phrase and quiet down.

  Douglas let the silence linger for a moment, appreciatively, and then said: “Thank you.” His peripheral vision checked Stevens, who was chewing the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, and moved on to the collection of dripping insignias before him. He laid his open hand over his heart. “We bid you welcome to Ryswyck,” he said, and then, “General Fleek,” stretching out his hand to her. She stepped toward him. “It is good to see you again.”

  “It is a pleasure, Admiral,” she answered, managing to convey that it was the first time she had taken pleasure in a visit to Ryswyck. Douglas welcomed her to his side and then looked expectantly toward the greatcoated Berenian. He stepped from among his entourage and, to Douglas’s private relief, did not attempt to rebuke them with a show of perfect protocol. His consternated look had given way to a wry bemusement, and there was only the tiniest breath of irony in the motion of his hand as he laid it to his heart in turn. “Lord General Armel Guiscard, Admiral, at your service.”

  Thanks be to wisdom, the man had a sense of humor. He knew he had been right to trust du Rau to pick a good delegation.

  The rest of the ceremony suffered no hitch. By the time the last chant had been sung, the ranks of cadets and officers had fully straightened themselves out, and the hall had begun to steam with the presence of so many warmly-clad bodies. Douglas said, “It is a few hours yet until dinner, which should give our guests time to settle into their quarters. General Fleek, we have a billet for you if you care to stay. We have a welcoming committee for each cadre; the cadet cadre can meet by the rainshade racks—show yourselves so they can see you—the junior cadre shall go by the mess hall door—and the senior officers, of course, by the door to the officers’ block. Any questions, please refer to one of the junior rota captains, who have red pins on their collars. Everyone dismissed!”

  The company immediately dislimned, and a fresh hubbub broke out; Douglas had appoin
ted himself and his executive council as the welcoming committee for the seniors, so he waited calmly by the door for them and the Berenians to collect by him. And at last, from among a clutch of shuttle crew and junior officers from Central, Speir emerged, slow and smiling.

  Stevens pounced on her at once. “There you are! Captain Speir, you should have been in the round of introductions! Fie on you for hiding in the back.” He stopped just short of grabbing her, and gave her a tiny punch in the shoulder instead; she grinned at him. Without Douglas having to say a word, she was brought in front of Guiscard, who exchanged grave bows with her, and they all found themselves ambling toward Douglas’s office, where there was talk of a morning senior cadre meeting before breakfast and a tour afterward. Douglas found himself observing more than speaking: Guiscard was taking all that he encountered in stride, while his fellow seniors, all younger men, were casting glances about them with looks varying between worry and distaste. Speir, too, was taking quiet stock of the office in Douglas’s possession: he had taken the opportunity, when the windows were repaired, to discard the drapes altogether and install light-film glass instead of plain.

  She was so thin. It made his solar plexus ache to look at her too long. At one point Marag caught him in a glance at her talking to Beathas, and they exchanged the briefest look of anguish before she turned again. She was quieter, too, her spirit still potent but now concentrated, to save energy. But even quiet, she had an air of command that bore a reassuring resemblance to the ebullience he had known in her.

  He had written to her to invite her down to Ryswyck for this ceremony and an extended visit if she wanted; but he had stopped short of asking her for anything or proposing a commission. And he had been afraid to call her on an open line, afraid too of asking himself why he was afraid. Perhaps she had been afraid as well, because she had confirmed her attendance in kind, in a letter sent via dispatch. He was still afraid even now: thinking of how he had hugged Cameron before the conflict emerged, not knowing what Speir thought or felt now that she was back at Ryswyck.

  At last Stevens was making noises about showing the Berenians to their quarters, and the office was emptying. Speir with her stick was the slowest to leave. She was nearly through the door.

  Douglas forced his voice to work. “Speir…?”

  She stopped and turned to him, gravely. Douglas tried to smile.

  Her mouth moved, and her eyes, in a feline look he recognized. She took a step toward him, and helplessly, he held out his arms, as he had done that day in the arena when she had bested him with a foil, and then the stick clattered to the carpet and they grabbed one another and he lifted her off her feet by the waist, and he didn’t know if he was crying or laughing or both. He felt her chuckling against him, her hand mussing his hair, and he held her tighter, till he felt her buried flinch.

  Douglas let her slide back down to her feet, laughing, wiping his eyes with the heels of his hands and breaking off to answer her playful cuffs with small punches to her shoulders.

  “Look at you,” she was saying.

  He was grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. “I thought never to see you again,” he said, wiping his eyes some more.

  “I thought the same. Look at you!”

  He held her steady by the shoulders and stooped to retrieve her stick for her, and she took it from him graciously: like all the times she’d won honorable bruises in the arena. “Ach, Speir. Can I do anything for you? Are you hungry? I could cadge you a snack.”

  “See you,” she said, her eyes dancing, “you’re ready to put the whole plate of chicken in front of me. I look forward to getting my appetite back. But not today, likely. I had something on the shuttle. What I really want—” she stopped laughing at last and gave a rueful sigh— “is a quiet place to lie down for a little. The journey tired me a bit.”

  Of course. And she’d come straight off the shuttle and into Ryswyck’s boiling midst. Not only was she tired; he saw now that she was really wavering. He wasn’t going to ask her to walk all the way over to her billet in the officers’ block. “I’ll put you in my quarters,” he said. “It’s quiet in there.”

  “I am much obliged,” she said.

  “The hell you are. Come this way.”

  He walked her with an arm about her shoulders through the outer office and into his quarters, where instead of turning lights on he helped her to the bunk and knelt to unfasten her shoes while she shrugged out of her stiff, damp tunic and pulled off her cravat.

  “Not back to full strength yet, obviously,” she murmured, as he took her stick and leaned it against the foot of the bed. “But I plan to be back in the arena soon enough.”

  “Nonsense,” Douglas said. “Ryswyck arena is too small for you now,” and she snorted as she lay down.

  “Wake me in a few minutes.” Her voice had trailed to a thin mumble. Douglas covered her with a blanket. Before he could think of a suitable retort, Speir had fallen asleep, like a dry branch breaking.

  He stood bent over her, in the light spilling in from the outer office. He still couldn’t think of a reply to her, and gave it up to smooth back her hair instead.

  Then he straightened up and closed her softly in the quiet dark.

  ~*~

  When Speir woke, she didn’t remember for a moment how she had come to a bed in a dark room. In sleepy panic, she fumbled till she found a light-panel on a bedside table. It brought up the wall sconces, just as she identified Douglas’s scent on the pillow. Over her head, his Arisail banner hung on the wall, still undulating gently from her movements, the red Ilonian border and the figured blue-and-white lozenge in the center shining in the warm light. It occurred to her that these had once been Barklay’s quarters; there was little sense of his presence here now, nor in the office Douglas had redecorated. She remembered suddenly the sharp whistle he’d used to bring Ryswyck to order, and chuckled softly as she sat up.

  She dressed slowly, and was remaking Douglas’s bed when Douglas himself opened the door and peered in.

  “Ah, good, you’re awake. It’s nearly time for dinner.”

  She smiled at him. The weight he carried became him, she thought: all the more that even distinguished and deferred-to, he was still Douglas.

  “Yes. Lead on,” she said.

  He matched his steps comfortably to hers, heading for the mess hall. “How long can you stay?” he asked.

  “For the time being, as long as you like,” she said. “I’m still technically on medical leave, and I’ve got another surgery scheduled in about six weeks.”

  “I would love to have you here for as much of that time as you can spare,” Douglas said. “I’ve missed you. So has Ryswyck.”

  She smiled. “At least they are treating me like normal so far. I’ve been feted so much recently,” she sighed, “it gets wearying.” Douglas snickered, and she said, “That sounded very stuck-up, didn’t it?”

  “I’ll keep your secret,” he teased, and she punched him lightly.

  They entered the mess hall together; someone rang the bell, and the usual cacophony died as Ryswyck jumped to its feet. Beside her, Douglas thanked them closed hand to heart, and resumed stride smoothly as they sat back down. She followed him through the line and over to the senior officers’ table. Douglas chose a place across from Guiscard, who stiffened, as if to anticipate further formal protocol; seeing him set down his tray without ceremony, he relaxed and returned to his meal.

  Douglas would want to engage Guiscard in conversation. Speir chose a place a little down from Douglas, and Stevens scooted himself down the bench to sit next to her. “How do you fare?” he inquired, under the canopy of noisy Ryswyckian voices.

  “Well enough,” Speir smiled at him. She broke open her roll and dipped it into her stew. “And how do you fare?”

  Stevens evidently took the question seriously, because he paused and finally let out a sigh. “Well enough,” he said, and she nodded.

  “I heard that Cameron was here—but I don’t see her. Did she eat e
arlier?”

  Stevens grimaced. “She’s leaving early in the morning, taking some home leave before she returns to Amity.” He lowered his voice. “She’s having a hard time with this.”

  “Tell me where she’s quartered. I want to see her before she goes.”

  Stevens told her. “She and Douglas had a big dust-up about the proposal. They made it up, but it’s not gotten any easier for her since. I doubt you could talk her into feeling better, but—we all ought to keep a touch on her if we can.”

  “I’ll do that,” Speir promised. “Speaking of Douglas, he looks well. You’ve been taking good care of him.”

  “And turn about, too,” Stevens said wryly. “Are you staying? If you do I’ll make sure to feed you up properly.”

  “You too, eh?” She grinned at him. “Yes, I’m staying.”

  He looked genuinely delighted. Looking up into his face, Speir puzzled over the difference and realized that Stevens had lost all his calluses, all his glibness; playful as ever, he was now also unabashedly vulnerable. He’s not the only one, she thought. And he had signed on to Douglas’s undefended strategy: Speir cast a long glance across the hall, and saw that the Ryswyckians had plunked themselves down among the Berenian trainees, practically daring them to recoil. Not one person in the room, she thought, was unaware of the precarious depths they dared, but they had all committed to this arena together. She returned her eyes to Stevens’s face.

  “Yes,” she said again. “I’m staying.”

  ~*~

  Fortunately for Speir’s stamina, Cameron’s quarters were on the way to her own. It took a while for her to get out of the dining hall: as more Ryswyckians realized she was there, she found herself veritably mobbed by junior officers and cadets, asking if she meant to stay long, if she would give a talk to the school, if she was going to teach regularly, asking her to preside at sparring court, to tell them the story of Colmhaven and the rendezvous. They refilled her teacup, gratitude in motion; this gratitude did not weary her, for they understood her intent and shared it, and did not single her out as a paragon of valor. Still, by the time she had said goodnight to the last well-wisher and made her escape, she was tired again.